


Out of One Cave, Still in Another

by a tattered rose (atr)



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atr/pseuds/a%20tattered%20rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Declan and Magnus are stuck on the wrong side of a cavein, and find a way to occupy the time whilst awaiting rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of One Cave, Still in Another

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoorQueequeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoorQueequeg/gifts).



There were times The Sanctuary Network felt like a big cave, or rather a system of caves, cut off from the rest of the world by one simple but vitally life-changing piece of information: humans weren't alone on the planet, and never had been. Exciting, terrifying information, leading to an exciting, terrifying life. But after a while, that's all it was – life. A life in a system of caves, forever cut off from a oblivious world by eyes adjusted to that one vital fact.

 

~*

 

If The Sanctuary Network was a system of caves, it wasn't unreasonable, though it was unfortunate, when the caveins began. The latest, at least they had managed to brace against. Only Old City was walled off, because Magnus had chosen to let it happen, and then to barricade herself in.

 

Declan wasn't surprised. He'd seen enough of Magnus, heard enough stories from Dr. Watson, read all the old files to know what her choice would be. She thrived in tight spots, dark pressing walls and widening spider cracks with only her wits to see her through.

 

Part of him wished he could live that way. No use wishing, he'd been trained for the broader spaces and movement of teams and troops, not to be a renegade.

 

Magnus lived, he privately concluded, for renegade days. Would be in them still but that there were too many Abnormals spread too far afield to hold them all under one roof – or mountain, as it might be.

 

Magnus also, it appeared, lived for walled off caves of a more literal persuasion.

 

"East wall's blocked too. We can probably shift some of the rocks, but not without causing a slide."

 

"And kicking up rather a lot of dust too, I imagine." Unaccountably chipper, her eyes were aglow in the torchlight. "The airlock sealed itself from the outside at the blast – no hope there, I'm afraid."

 

Declan panned his torch around the space – roughly twenty meters by thirty, and assessed the escape options. Conclusion: none. "What do you want to do?"

 

Magnus shrugged, sat against a flat bit of wall near where they had dropped their packs once the aftershocks had faded. "It doesn't seem there's much we _can_ do. Not until Henry and Will find a way to contact us."

 

His expression must have betrayed more worry than he generally liked to show because she smiled again, cheeky and light, and added:

 

"Cheer up Declan. I've been in tighter spots and always made it out. Power Bar?"

 

~*

 

Even a quarter hour without anything to do was too long for some people. They'd spread out a sleeping mat to sit on (relatively comfortable) and itemized their supplies (enough for several days, if they were careful – they'd counted on finding the missing team in some distress) and run over every inch of the walls and floor in case of a secret escape hatch (futile, if serene occupation.)

 

Then Magnus pulled out a pack of playing cards.

 

"Poker?"

 

Declan refrained from replying with the old joke – "poke 'er? But I just met 'er" - in favour of something a bit more professional. "You carry playing cards on a mission?"

 

"Of course. It's not always running and explosions and imminent attacks by bloodthirsty spiders, you know."

 

Not looking at him, she was already shuffling, hand to hand, perfect arcs and slices.

 

"Alright then. What are the stakes?" Expecting pebbles or skittles, two things they had in abundance.

 

Could he have seen her down-turned face behind the hair, he might have been nervous.

 

"Oh, I was thinking we might make it interesting. Piece of clothing a hand?"

 

Now he _was_ nervous. "Piece of- Magnus, you're not proposing we play strip poker?"

 

"If that's what you'd like to call it, then yes. Is that a problem?"

 

"But we're trapped in a bloody cave, for Christ's sake!"

 

This was not a situation he'd ever have found himself in under Dr. Watson's reign, but then Dr. Watson, given the fond, faraway look he got whenever he spoke about The Five in the Old Days, probably would have said yes. And would, had Declan broached the question, have asked why it was a conundrum at all. Maybe it had something to do with the sheer length of time they'd been alive, boundaries and taboos dissolving along with the years.

 

That was his rationale, anyway. Really, by the images of contoured skin already sliding into his imagination, it was much simpler. He was a guy. Magnus was gorgeous and brilliant and entirely out of his league. And offering to get (partially) naked with him. Could anyone ever turn her down?

 

Having wrestled himself to a conclusion, he was opening his mouth to assent when he glanced down to find a short stack of cards waiting.

 

"Five Card Draw alright?"

 

~*

 

His troubles were rooted in what brought him into The Sanctuary in the first place. Or perhaps rooted in who he was – who he was born and who he grew up to be. Dr. Watson had hand-picked him for a reason, and while his practical experience with ops and ground team leadership appeared at odds with Watson's more analytical approach, that reason was, as he was often told, a similarity of soul.

 

Poor comfort to be left a legacy of eternal second fiddle.

 

Even Watson, forever a beloved member of The Five, had never been first in Magnus' eyes. Always a valued friend and confidant, reliable compatriot and source of advice. Always ready to step forward and help, but always retiring to the background until that help was sought.

 

Declan knew Watson had loved her all the while.

 

It wasn't as though Declan thought he had a chance to become even what Watson was to her. No one who hadn't gone through all those years, no one who hadn't injected Source Blood into their veins could come close to that. But as he studied and struggled to life up to Watson's standards, he'd always hoped to fill the same role, be a loyal Head and someone she could depend on. A real part of The Sanctuary, the _real_ Sanctuary, the project Magnus senior had founded with noble purpose.

 

If that's what he'd become, it hurt more than he thought it would.

 

He was a force in the Network, part of the Executive Committee and Head of the London House and his fingers were carefully placed on enough pulse points that he could, quietly and under the radar, accomplish nearly anything. Because no one took enough notice of Declan McRae until they realized he was there, and by then it was too late. He had power.

 

He was invisible.

 

He liked working behind the scenes, out of the spotlight and playing by the rules. Magnus' crew were famous for their flash and daring, but 99% of life was changing light bulbs and keeping a team alive long enough to secure a perimeter.

 

He wasn't a flashy guy.

 

He didn't need to be the center of attention, he preferred not to be. But it would be nice, sometimes, if his presence was acknowledged when he wasn't the only one in the room.

 

~*

 

Over an hour later, and still no noise from either the radio or the other side of their inadvertent prison. They still took a few minutes to check after every couple hands, but it was becoming a rather ludicrous endeavor.

 

Declan was down to his skivvies, Magnus still (barely) modestly dressed in tank top and trousers.

 

The radio was the easier check, calling out through all frequencies one by one. Declan had finished, and was stowing the deck when Magnus returned from her turn at perimeter check.

 

"Your deal."

  
"Magnus, you can't really expect..." He tried to gesture to his state of undress without blushing, something he'd already failed at when she had appraised his newly bared chest with an unreadable expression.

 

"So sure that you'll lose to me again? I thought James trained his team better than that – never show signs of weakness when confronting an adversary, Declan. I always thought you knew that." She was already cross-legged on the mat, holding out the pack.

 

He _wasn't_ sure he'd lose, but the odds weren't exactly in his favour. He was a fair hand at the game, good enough to fleece any crew he'd worked with. But Magnus... Well, it was hard to compete against a woman who'd had a couple extra centuries to perfect her game.

 

Not that the constant gamble of seeing her half naked was doing much for his concentration.

 

"It's not _weakness,_ Magnus. It's against reg-" A flush did creep along to his ears when he realized he was in his skivvies, trying to quote the rules and regulations to the woman who had _written_ them in the first place.

 

"Fair point." She nodded but didn't drop her hand. "I'll go on with the clothing, and you-" another encompassing appraisal, "-we'll put you down for kisses. Are those acceptable terms?"

 

Her's was a wicked smile, but he gave in. After all, arguing with the legendary Helen Magus left him with worse odds than fifty-two cards.

 

"Fine. But give me those cards, I don't trust you." The question being what he didn't trust her to do... or not do.

 

Busy shuffling, he pretended not to hear when she murmured: "Why Declan, I do believe you're flirting with me."

 

~*

 

The full house, queen high, would have felt more satisfying if he wasn't fairly sure she'd had a straight. Still, he wasn't about to argue with the resulting divestment of her tank top, leaving her more covered than a bikini but glaringly exposed with the torchlight picking out in soft shadows the curves and hollows of bone and muscle along her ribs and stomach.

 

He tried not to watch as the shadows danced when she leaned down to sweep up the cards. Or stare at the extra cleavage as her breasts fell forwards in her practical-yet-decorative black bra.

 

The next hand slid in front of him with professional snaps, and he took a slow peek. Pocket aces. Good enough (more than good enough) to stay in, even across from a secretive smirk that he'd learned – the hard way – might mean _anything._

 

Bids and raises – they'd eventually started using pebbles for the fun of it, even though each hand was still all or nothing – and he flipped his two pair, aces and 5s, onto the pot.

 

Magnus glanced down, then up at him expectantly.

 

"What, straight?" He asked, gloomily.

 

If she'd lost she'd already be shimmying out of her trousers.

 

Her smile widened.

 

"Three of a kind?"

 

A Cheshire Cat of a smile flashed at him as a trio of deuces splattered on top of the pile, sliding down the side as she crawled over it until she was, for all intents and purposes, in his lap.

 

"I win again. And this, I believe, is when you pay up.

 

~*

 

It was nothing serious but uncomfortably direct. Declan was good at many things, and that was why he was where he was, out in the Network. Tied in so deeply he was a node, a fixture. Replaceable, for sure, but too deeply entrenched to be expendable, too solid and subtle to be dangerous.

 

Under the radar, and under notice.

 

He wasn't one for heroics, that sort of thing only burned bridges and broke carefully brokered deals.

 

He was invisible.

 

Until she needed to lean on him.

 

Then he was always there, loyalty given long before. Loyalty was easy for him.

  
Invisibility was easy for him.

 

What was hard was being seen, briefly, by Magnus. Only to be forgotten again.

 

~*

 

He turned his head slightly for an obligatory peck on the cheek, but Magnus followed the movement and caught him full on the mouth.

 

Before he could think about it, his lips parted in surprise. She used the opportunity to delve into his mouth, searching for his tongue.

 

The next moment she was back on her side, tidily balanced on her heels. "Your turn."

 

He fumbled through a quick shuffle, used the game to keep from looking up. Disappointment, amusement – he wasn't sure which reaction he dreaded more.

 

After a lucky break going after suits he was holding a straight, king high. He bet aggressively, hoping she would fold and buy him some time.

 

No luck.

 

She laid down a full house and he chanced a peek, to find her staring back in ruthless challenge.

 

With a burst of insight he knew, _knew_ , she'd been playing him all along. Keeping herself carefully a few steps ahead, folding – or badgering _him_ into folding, whenever the balance was getting off or the pace too quick.

 

No weakness.

 

Well, two could, quite literally, play at _that_ game.

 

"Two pair." He sighed, gently, scuttled his hand amongst the cast-offs before she could get a peek.

 

Magnus crawled forwards, slowly, purposefully, like a predator sure of its prey. A hunt.

 

This time he was ready and met her half way. Determined – if he had no chance of taking charge – to at least put up a respectable effort. Her lips were soft on his as he drove forwards, hard and bruising until she was bracing herself to keep from falling backwards. He pressed on, tongue running no further than her bottom teeth, until her head was tilting back under his.

 

In the second he fell back a few inches, quip about fair payment at the ready, she surged upwards, forcing him up and back until they were both on their knees. A level field, by her own choice, playing with him again.

 

He didn't give a damn.

 

A sharp rock was scraping against his knee and as he shifted to avoid it he lost his balance, grabbing for her waist and tumbling them into an embrace. Her hair draped against his neck, the smooth material of her bra, and the soft mounds under it crushed against his chest. Her hands held onto his shoulders, thumbs sweeping over the curves of bone and muscle. Some little time after they'd re-stabilized she pulled back, far enough to speak but close enough to keep him in place, massage of his shoulders languid and firm.

 

"Why Declan, I do believe you threw that hand."

 

Another peck and she let him go, hands trailing down her body to undo her trousers. The material slid off her hips and she stood, letting them puddle on the ground before kicking them aside in one fluid motion.

 

"Were you planning on losing the next one as well?"

 

At this juncture, he would have preferred not to be caught leering at his quasi-boss' back end, but she really wasn't giving him much choice.

 

"Depends on the hand." His voice was rough, and even he wasn't sure if he meant the cards, or _her_ hand, as it drew a line from the side of his neck, down his sternum and paused, fingers splayed, just above the waistband of his boxers.

 

I'm willing to bet it would be a very good hand."

 

Kiss or clothing?

 

"A bluff."

 

He pulled her back down, parting her lips with a hand on her jaw, cradling her head as he teased at her tongue. She pulled it away, tapping at the other side then darting up until they were playing a sloppy wet game of cat and mouse in her mouth.

 

"Next hand?"

 

It was a weakness but Declan had to know, and searched her eyes. Playful, hungry, seeing nothing but _him._

 

"Full house. Jacks high."

 

"Oh, very good."

 

She backed away, onto her own side, voice disappointed as she gazed forlornly into the pot. He was halfway alarmed that he hadn't understood the rules.

 

"Only three sixes."

 

She unhooked her bra with one hand, more smoothly than he would have done. Her breasts bounced in freedom, and he didn't bother to look away. If she was going to write him up, it wasn't like he could get into any more trouble than he already had.

 

Instead of tossing the material aside she held it by one strap, dangling carefully in front of him before dropping it onto the pot.

 

"Another hand would be rather pointless, don't you think?"

 

And that should have been the end of it. A diversion during a long, boring wait. Game over.

 

He stood up and pulled her back to him, her breasts even softer than the material, teeth clicking together hard enough to sting before sliding over to run the tip of his tongue along her jaw. The bottom edge of her ribs were almost chastely positioned under the heels of his palms. At lease until she nipped under his waistband to prick her way down his ass, scraping nails along flesh and toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

 

He growled into her neck, half-intentionally. The sound egged her on and she squeezed, leaving, he was sure, a line of crescent indentations.

 

She'd raised the stakes, and he sure as hell wasn't about to fold. No weakness. He bit at the muscle running down to her shoulders, and when she arched back to give him more access he pushed aside the question of whether the vampire-Tesla had marked her there first by abruptly shifting his hold down to knead at the rounded curve of her ass.

 

She moaned, loudly, at the ceiling, sound echoing through the chamber.

 

It felt like it echoed inside him as well and he hardened as a tingling shudder ran down his spine. He froze, panting lightly, eyes shut and inhaled the strange mix of cardamom and lavender hiding beneath her hair.

 

She didn't share in his pause, giving him one last squeeze before snapping him, literally, out of his daze. The line of skin under his waistband was still raw when she pulled down his boxers and rotated her hips up to press against him, growl of approval low in her throat.

 

Her panties were silk. The slide of material across the underside of his cock made him squirm, almost lose his footing. To cover the reaction he shifted to kick away his boxers, her laughter buzzing into the hollow behind his ear.

 

That might have bruised his ego, but she was also thrusting her hips in languid rhythm, deep smooth massage up and down the sensitive skin and forcing the head to rub against her skin with maddening friction.

 

It was a weakness he could live with.

 

He pulled her closer, increasing the pressure, thrusting back in time. When he was sure she was staying put he let go long enough to reach down and lift her thigh until she was wrapped around him. Less stable, but now he was hitting her clit with each downward motion and she hung off his shoulders, drawing pictures along his collarbone with her mouth.

 

They were both wet, her panties slick and his precum smearing a pathway up to her belly button. She shimmied, and they both moaned, before she untangled herself and shoved him sideways.

 

The shock of relatively cold air on heated skin tightened his muscles as he watched her in confusion, again half-convinced there was still time to call it a lark – if a painfully hard lesson – and she was going for her clothes.

 

Instead she grabbed the corner of the mat, flicking off the rocks and cards.

 

The she was in front of him again, holding his eyes and then his hands in an achingly intimate gesture. Starting at her waist she guided them downwards until they rested at the lacy band of her underwear. From there he took the hint, shoving the material down to the floor with a long caress, and tried not to immediately thrust against her.

 

"Shall we?" Tone light and warm as she tilted her head towards the makeshift bed.

 

Still holding his hands, fingers now intertwined, he could almost believe she wanted _him_ , and this would all have played out differently if there were someone else in his place.

 

He let her lead him, let her draw him down until they were both kneeling.

 

She grabbed him at the base, firm as a handshake, and hummed happily as she dragged along the firm shaft. When the side of her pinky bumped into the ridge of the head he jerked forwards, briefly pushing her hand back before she compensated, hitting him again.

 

His break was coming in short gasps and he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and reached blindly for her. Fingers hit a patch of neatly trimmed hair and he followed the trail, pausing at the hard nub that made her gasp. He circled it, smirking when he received a groan in return, before abandoning it for his main goal.

 

She was as wet as he thought she'd be, and wetter, liquid caught in the creases of her thighs. She spread her legs out in invitation, and he ran his first two fingers along her folds, a teasing, skimming touch.

 

Up and down, he was happy to continue until she writhed, but with another growl she squeezed him, pulling hard until his sensitized tip hit her stomach, and he leaked another drop.

 

He increased the pressure, using his thumb to squeeze back at her flesh, rolling it between his fingers and felt her drip onto her hand.

 

She was nearly ready, and god knew he was too.

 

He removed his hand, eliciting a groan of frustration. To make up for it he toyed with her breasts, flicking his thumbs over her nipples. Something she liked, he was pleased to discover, and he pinched and soothed as she began pumping him in earnest.

 

He was waiting for something, but didn't know what it was until she lifted her other hand to his face, caressing his cheek. "Declan," she called, soft plea. Her pupils were blown – his too, he supposed – filled with lust. But it was the affection he saw there, underneath, that made his cock throb.

 

He kissed her again, and this time it was desperate, needy. She gave as much as she got, no games this time, erratic and slippery and the pricks of nips and bites. He pressed harder and she leaned back, guiding each other until she was on her back with him leaning over her.

 

She was beautiful.

 

Not something he hadn't noticed before – the whole world must have noticed – but it wasn't just her face and her figure and endless ability to accomplish the impossible and do it with panache. She was beautiful, all of her.

 

Magnus squirmed under his gaze. Not uncomfortable, she could never be in doubt.

 

He touched her again, massaging her briefly before gathering fingerfuls of her juices and slicking her neglected clit.

 

At the first touch her back arched, and she called out his name, trying to pull him down. He resisted, leisurely stroking her in rotating bursts of pattern. Up and down, up and down, now circling this way, until she almost relaxed, then giving her a sharp pinch and rubbing side to side.

 

He had nothing to prove, everything he did he did because it was necessary, and because he could. His life story. He had nothing to prove. He had everything to prove.

 

After the final pinch she had given up, whimpering, fists clenched at her sides.

 

He tried to chuckle at the victory. At the sound her eyes slit open, mischievous glare warning him that it had only been a temporary surrender.

 

Wiggling down, she took hold of him again. Playing dirty now, she focused on the swollen head. He forgot to switch it up when she closed her palm around his slit and twisted, sending a jolt straight to his brain.

 

Again and again, switching tactics like he was doing by caressing the ridge, then rubbing at the extra-sensitive spot just blow. A game, at which neither could lose.

 

She was pressing her way along the vein when he lost it, body tense and the arm holding him up starting to shake. He'd been sliding up and down her slit, hitting her clit with every upwards stroke. This time he pushed in, driving his middle finger inside her with rather more force than necessary.

 

With a gasp she let him go and he thrust against her, thrust his fingers, twisting back and forth, in and out, adding a finger and curling them upwards to drag against her walls.

 

There were vague plans for a third finger but before he got there her hands were digging into his hips.

 

"For god's sake, Declan." It was likely meant to come out as exasperation, but was nearer to desperation. He let her pull him down, gratefully – he wasn't sure how much longer he could go on like that – and he guided himself into place, sliding into her in one fluid stroke.

 

She was hot and wet and tight and he twitched. His head dropped to her shoulder and she let him pause until he caught his breath. By the sound of it, she might have been catching her breath as well.

 

When he drew back she clenched around him and he made a short thrust back in, balls bouncing gently. The next stroke went better, pulling nearly all the way out before she drew him back in.

 

One of them sighed, and as he fell into an easy rhythm Magnus sketched her finger pads across his back, his shoulders, along his jaw to play with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. She thrust up to meet him, in perfect time.

 

When the tension started building she tilted her hips, changing the angle. He grunted and she gasped, using her grip in his hair to pull him into an erratically deep, soft kiss. Her other hand ran down his chest, stopping low, rubbing her clit. By the brushing of her knuckles she was replicating the set of motions he had used before.

 

He could tell she was getting close when her breathing roughened, eyes tightly closed and head fallen to the side.

 

He sped up, harder and faster, holding back from throwing himself past plateau and into the orgasm he was craving.

 

She shuddered when she came, and opened her eyes. He hadn't even realized he was watching her face until their eyes met: her's wild but steady. She didn't flinch away and neither did he, even when he lost it for the last time, her gaze and spasmming muscles driving him even deeper, quicker, losing time until he came as well, pulsing against the remaining weak contractions.

 

Magnus was sprawled loosely, eyes filled now with satisfaction, and grinned lazily up at him.

 

This was not a moment he had thought about, and he would have pulled away except that as long as she was watching him, he couldn't move. Half a minute and he forced himself, compromising by not looking away as he pushed up.

 

She didn't let him. Instead, she took hold of his upper arms, coaxing his only-too-willing body down on top of hers. He braced some of his weight on his elbows but she didn't flinch away. Her body was soft yet solid under his, and what his hands and mouth hadn't touched he could feel now – ridges and hollows, give and take. Her shoulder pillowed his head, and his attempts to catch his breath were caught in turn in the hollow between her collarbones.

 

Her hands were in his hair as her cheek rested against his head, soothing strokes on his scalp.

 

A thought wandered across his mind: maybe it was Magnus herself who was the cave, and all those she ran across merely became lost inside. Some making it further than others. Some never making it out.

 

Their breathing was nearing normal when the radio crackled.

  
"Magnus? Declan? Are you guys there?" Will's insistent voice, tinged with worry, filled the space.

  
"Magnus?"

 

Declan got there first, not waiting for Magnus to more than sit up before picking up the radio.

 

"We're alright, Will. Just stuck."

 

"Magnus?"

 

She answered, voice strong and steady. "Yes Will, we're fine."

 

"Thank god." Worry switched to relief. "Henry has a bead on your position. Tesla has an idea how to get down to you, and if it works we should be able to get you guys out in fifteen minutes."

 

At the name "Tesla," Declan grimaced. Solid bloke, but only if he didn't manage to kill them.

 

"Uh, You might want to stand on the-" A pause, as voices spoke too far from the receiver. "-The north wall, just in case."

 

Declan and Magnus looked at each other, rolling their eyes in the same familiar understanding they had always had. In sync, thinking of the likeliest reasons for that _suggestion._ It was a short but interesting list.

 

~*

 

Fifteen minutes later they were cleaned and dressed and peering up at the shaft of light pouring through a rather large hole in the roof.

 

It had been a rather good _suggestion,_ indeed, as a hill of broken stone now filled most of the area they weren't occupying.

 

The first one down was Tesla, who'd taken the expedient route of dropping directly, vampire resilience saving him from a deadly crash landing, but not the shifting pile of rocks, as he promptly lost his footing and tumbled along to the ground.

  
"Well," he glanced around critically, dusting himself off and pretending nothing had gone wrong. "I'd call that a success."

 

Will and Henry had made it down by this time, at a more reasonable pace. Before one of them could say anything Tesla raised his eyes to what was left of the ceiling, declaring to all and sundry: "I will admit, however, that those settings may have been a _tad_ overkill.

 

Well, at least they weren't dead.

 

~*

 

There was always a time when you could stop, to go back and ignore a slip up and pretend it never happened. There was always more that _could_ have happened, and in that knowledge all the rest could be explained away.

  
For them, rescue was that time.

 

Magnus was in charge again, speaking with Henry and conversing with Will, avoiding Tesla and his endless fishing for the praise and awe his formidable brilliance demanded.

 

They were winched up the new entrance-exit, and lived to fight another day. For Magnus it would be another renegade day. For Declan, it would be the same as it was the day before.

 

Out of one cave, still in another.

 

Declan was invisible again.

 


End file.
